Changes
by SherlockLivesOn
Summary: Sherlock Holmes's teenage daughter has more in common with him than just his intellect. They are both harsh, cold and apathetic and John Watson is about to move in with them. John knew his life was never going to be the same but he wasn't prepared for the danger that surrounded the Holmes family. Set during Series 1.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Thanks for clicking on this story and giving it a chance. This story is a little different from the usual Sherlock has a daughter stories. I've tried to put a different spin on it and make it my own so please give it a read and don't forget to click on the review button below! :)

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Sherlock.

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The shooter had come from nowhere.

John was standing there, in the wrong building, watching as his new...acquaintance talked to a serial killer like he was talking to an ordinary person off any street in London. By all means, the taxi driver looked just like anyone off the street. A middle aged man, glasses, average clothes. Nothing screamed serial killer. Yet Jennifer Wilson's GPS in her phone had led John there, meaning he had to be the serial killer.

His mind began conjuring up ideas, trying to explain why such an ordinary man would start committing such horrible crimes. So many reasons jumped into his head but none of them seemed plausible. His attention was suddenly drawn to the cabbie's hand. He squinted, just able to make out the shape of a pill. What on earth was the man doing with a pill?

He watched Sherlock raise a hand, holding something up to the light. A pill. His mind whirled. Both of them were holding a pill. For the first time, and probably not the last, John wished he had Sherlock's intellect. If he did, he would know why the two men in the building across from him were holding two identical pills.

The cab driver was talking as Sherlock slowly lowered his hand. What was he saying? Was he confessing? Explaining the inner working of his mind that caused him to start killing? Standing in the other building, John could only guess. The cab driver lifted his hand, the pill slowly travelling to his lips. John's intuition, for some reason, was telling him Sherlock was doing the same.

Something was going to happen and he needed to stop it. His hand wrapped around the gun stashed in the waistband of his jeans. He took aim, not even worrying about Sherlock's proximity to the killer. He trusted his abilities and knew his aim was true.

A shot rang out. The cab driver fell.

John stared through the glass, his mouth opening in shock as he realised someone _else_ had shot the killer.

Through the small circular window in the door of the other building, now broken from the bullet, he saw her.

She lowered her gun but made no other moves, simply staring at Sherlock through the circle. John's shock deepened as he looked at her further. She was a teenager, looking no older than 18. From his limited view, he could make out full pink lips, high cheeks and fair blonde hair. A teenager had just shot their killer.

Seconds passed. Sherlock and the mystery teenage girl simply stared at each other. She smiled. John wished he could see Sherlock's reaction. He wondered how the 'amazing' and imperious Mr. Holmes was taking this sudden turn of events.

John blinked and the girl was gone. Sherlock whirled, his eyes scanning every inch of the room. His gaze fell on the window, and John. John raised an eyebrow, a silent question. Sherlock held one finger to his lips.

John wanted answers but wasn't going to get them as Sherlock spun around. Presumably he was trying to get any information he could out of the man before he died, that was if he wasn't already dead yet.

John suddenly felt useless. He had rushed down there, thinking he could catch a killer and help a...colleague, only to run into the wrong building and have someone else shoot the killer. Not what he had been expecting, although he was beginning to realise that when it came to Sherlock Holmes, nothing would ever be what he expected.

John retreated back the way he had run through minutes ago. His mind was still trying to gather and piece together everything that had happened that night. Sherlock had gotten into a cab driven by a serial killer. He was driven to a college and walked inside, _with_ the killer. Each of them had a pill and were going to take it. The killer is shot by a mysterious girl.

Suddenly out of nowhere, John had the urge to laugh. How had his life gone from fixing people up in Afghanistan to living something could barely pass as a life to sharing a flat with a 'consulting detective' and being mixed up in murders? Sherlock had been right when he had compared himself to John. They were vastly different but both addicted to danger. It had to be true. Why else would John not even be considering moving away from Sherlock, despite everything that had happened in the past 24 hours?

Searing blue lights pulled John from his thoughts. They were faster than he had expected, considering he had called him from the taxi less than 5 minutes ago. He pushed open the door and stepped out into the night. Police cars and ambulances littered the streets. They were already cornering off the street with police tape. John's hopes of slipping out into the street unnoticed vanished the second someone yelled out his name.

Lestrade.

John found himself being ushered towards one of the many police cars. Lestrade appeared before him, small notebook in hand. The question flew out of his mouth thick and fast. John explained how the GSP on the phone had led him to the college and Sherlock. Lestrade applauded him for calling them the instant he got the location but he berated him for not waiting for them. While John was explaining how he had run into the wrong building, Sherlock was led out towards an ambulance.

"And then what happened?"

John looked back to Lestrade, his mind groping for the answer to a question he had barely heard. "Uh. I watched through the window as Sherlock and the guy talked. The guy had a pill in his hand and he was going to ingest it. Then...uh, then he was shot."

Lestrade nodded while scribbling notes into the small book. He had angled it so the words upon the page were not visible to John. "And did you see who shot him?"

John's mouth opened, ready to answer with the truth, when Sherlock's face popped into his mind. A finger held up to his lips. Sherlock was telling John not to mention the shooter. Why? Why would Sherlock want to protect this girl?

"Uh...no. No I didn't."

John didn't have any qualms about lying to the police. Sherlock wanted to keep the shooter's identity secret and while he had every reason not to, after so many people had tried to warn him away, he was beginning to trust Sherlock.

Lestrade eyed him, staring at him face, searching for something. Finally he said, "Alright. If you remember anything, give us a call."

John nodded but Lestrade had already stalked over towards Sherlock. He stood there, wondering what to do when Sergeant Donovan walked over. Her mouth was set in a thin line.

"Pills," she said.

"Excuse me?" John asked.

"That's how he made it look like suicides," she explained. "Two pills. One of them poison. They had to choose, 50/50 chance of living. Son of a bitch." She walked away, muttering about crazy people and murders.

John marvelled over the genius plan before he reminded himself people had died. But it _was_ genius. Pull a gun, tell them they can either choose a pill or be shot. 50% chance of living, who wouldn't take that chance? Sherlock had taken those odds. _That's_ why they both had been holding identical pills. John shook his head, wondering if Sherlock really would have taken that risk? Would he really chance his life just to prove he was smart and could pick the right pill?

John sighed and made his way over towards Sherlock, standing behind the tape cutting him off from the ambulance. Sherlock was sitting on the ledge of the ambulance, a pink blanket wrapped around his thin frame.

John, leaning against the police car, heard Sherlock say something along the lines of "Why have I got this blanket? They keep putting this blanket on me."

John suppressed a smile. He stretched and glanced at his watch, not surprised to see it was well into the early hours of the morning. What an unusual 24 hours he had had.

Sherlock and Lestrade were talking when one word caught his attention. His head shot up, waiting to hear if he had been right about Sherlock's signal.

Sherlock was shaking his head. "No. I didn't see the shooter."

John sighed. So he had been right in not mentioning the shooter. Sherlock didn't want it known this girl had shot the killer. Why? How was she connected to Sherlock? Why would he protect her?

"Can I go?" Sherlock asked. Without waiting for a reply, he stood and walked towards John.

"Hey, no. I still got questions for you." Lestrade stalked after him.

Sherlock spun around as an agitated sigh escaped his lips. "What now? I'm in shock. Look I've got a blanket." He waved the edge of the pink material in Lestrade's face.

Lestrade crossed his arms over his chest. "Sherlock." His tone was one a teacher might use when telling off a student.

"And I just caught you a serial killer." He paused. "More or less."

Lestrade nodded, knowing it was useless to argue with the man. "Fine. I'll talk with you tomorrow."

Sherlock walked away, tugging off the blanket from his shoulders. He flung it through the open window of a police car before ducking under the tape that closed off the crime scene. He stopped in front of John, his eyes raking over his form. John might have thought he was checking to see if he was okay if it had been someone else.

"Hungry?" Sherlock suddenly asked. "There's a great Chinese restaurant near Baker Street. You can always tell a great Chinese place by the lower third of the door handle." He flipped up the collar of his coat and adjusted his scarf before setting off down the street.

"Hang on," John called out as he ran after Sherlock, his short strides having trouble matching Sherlock's lengthy ones. "You told Lestrade you didn't see the shooter."

Sherlock continued to walk, not breaking stride. "I believe I did."

"But you did see her."

"As did you," was Sherlock's reply.

"Yes. And I didn't mention her just as you signalled."

"Yes, thank you for that." Sherlock glanced briefly down at John. "Now, Chinese?"

John decided to take a different line of questioning. "You were going to take that damn pill weren't you?"

"Of course I wasn't." Sherlock brushed off John's concerned tone. "Just biding my time."

"Because you knew she would turn up?" John asked.

Pause.

"Because I knew _you_ would turn up."

John would have continued his questioning of Sherlock if a familiar black saloon car hadn't caught his eye. As the pair approached the parked car, a familiar man stepped out. John's heart seized with alarm as he recognized the man who had, sort of, kidnapped him. The man who had described himself as Sherlock's arch enemy.

"Sherlock, that's him," John said, trying to keep his tone calm and level. "That's the man I was talking to you about."

Sherlock eyed the man, who still had that umbrella in his hand. "I know exactly who he is."

"So another case cracked," the man said. "How very public spirited. Though that's never really your motivation is it?"

John noticed the man's eyes. Watchful eyes, monitoring their every movement, taking in everything they did.

Sherlock's eyes scanned the area in front of him, giving off an air of nonchalance, despite the fact he was talking to his 'arch enemy'. "What are you doing here?"

"As ever, I'm concerned about you."

"Yes I've been hearing about your concern." Two pairs of eyes travelled to John briefly.

"Always so aggressive. Has it ever occurred to you that you and I belong on the same side?" the man questioned.

"Oddly enough," Sherlock said with obvious sarcasm, "no."

"We have more in common than you'd like to believe. This petty feud between us is childish. People will suffer. And you know how it always upset mummy."

John's eyes flew to the man. Had he just said mummy? What was going on?

"_I_ upset her? Me?" That hadn't been what John expected Sherlock to say. "It wasn't _me_ who upset her Mycroft."

_Okay,_ John thought, _now things are beyond confusing_. And he wanted answers. "No. Wait. Mummy...who's mummy?"

"Mother," Sherlock replied, keeping his eyes on Mycroft. "Our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft. Gaining weight?"

"Losing it, in fact."

"He's your brother?" John resisted the urge to add 'for real' to the end of that sentence.

"Of course he's my brother," Sherlock stated.

John couldn't speak. He simply stared at Sherlock's brother. _Sherlock's brother_. He had only known the man for just over 24 hours yet he had never, ever pictured the man having a brother. They obviously both had very large personalities, how on earth did they grow up together in the same house without killing each other? It was very clear there was bad blood between them so it mustn't have been smooth sailing.

John was suddenly asking himself why had Sherlock's brother kidnapped him? "So he's not..."

Sherlock's sharp gaze trained on him, as did Mycroft's. "Not what?"

John squirmed under the gazes of two very...different men. "I don't know...criminal mastermind?"

Sherlock looked over his brother, contempt clear in his eyes. "Close enough."

"For goodness sake. I occupy a minor position in the British Government."

"He _is_ the British Government," Sherlock corrected. "When he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. The two brothers stared at each other. John considered breaking the tense silence when someone else did it for him.

"Ah! Everyone's here. Even Mycroft!"

John spun around to see _her_ approaching their little group. Neither of the brothers looked surprised to see her there.

"That's...thats her," John said, his eyes travelling from the girl to Sherlock. "That's the girl who shot him."

The girl smiled at John as she came to stand beside Sherlock, who barely spared her a glance. Now up close, and without a gun in her hand, the girl looked...like a teenage girl. Her long blonde hair fell straight, ending halfway down her back. She had a pretty face with high, angled cheekbones, full plump lips and striking eyes. In fact, her eyes suddenly reminded John of the man he was standing next to. Her slim figure was shown off in well fitting jeans and a leather jacket. Standing among the group, John noted that she was taller than himself but shorter than Sherlock. Her gun, now stashed in the pocket of her jacket, gave her a deadly aura yet she still managed to look innocent with those wide eyes. She was extremely attractive.

"You are very adept at pointing out the obvious John," Sherlock said. "I do hope it won't become a habit." He looked at the girl. John noticed his eyes travel the length of her body. He realised that Sherlock did that every time someone approached him. It was how he got so much information in such little time. "When did you get back?"

"This morning," she answered. Her voice was oddly feminine with a sharp edge to it. "Are you going to ask how she is?"

Sherlock looked at her with his penetrating gaze. "The state of your fingernails tells me she is not well. What have you been doing all day?"

She shrugged. "Following you. Gives me much entertainment. For someone so clever, you can be surprisingly ignorant."

John watched the pair talking, noting how similar their vocabulary and tone were. He wished someone could explain who this girl was.

"The dark hair didn't suit you."

The girl winced. "Damn. Thought I had you."

Sherlock smiled. "You were taught by the best. You cannot beat the best."

John coughed, finally interrupting to get some answer. "Err, would someone like to explain to me who she is?"

Sherlock sighed like this meeting was one great big annoyance to him. "Dr John Watson, Morgan Holmes. Morgan Holmes, Dr John Watson."

John's eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. "Wait, wait. This man," he said, pointing a finger towards the silent Mycroft, "is your brother. And this girl," he pointed towards Morgan, "is your daughter."

"Correct."

Sherlock Holmes, the most arrogant, imperious and pompous man he had ever met had a daughter! A teenage daughter! It suddenly made sense why Sherlock had wanted him to keep silent about her shooting the cab driver. His daughter had shot the killer! And he didn't even seemed shocked or concerned about it!

"And you just shot someone," he continued.

"You're right," Morgan said to Sherlock. "He does like to point out the obvious."

John was getting his first glimpse into just how alike Morgan and Sherlock were.

"Yes I shot someone. Not my first time shooting." Her face suddenly turned thoughtful. "Although that was the first time my shot has killed someone. I guess I should feel bad but he wasn't a very nice person."

"Bloody hell Sherlock," Mycroft suddenly said. "How old was she when you trained her how to use a gun?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous Mycroft. I didn't teach her how to use a gun." John actually breathed out a sigh of relief; that was until Sherlock continued. "She was smart enough to teach herself."

Morgan beamed, like she was proud of her accomplishment. Mycroft scowled, as if he disapproved. "I shall be off."

"Yes, yes. Be on your merry way." Sherlock waved him away with a hand.

Mycroft gripped his umbrella tightly as he swung open the door to his car. Just before he shut it, Morgan gave him a grin. "Bye uncle!"

"I wish you wouldn't encourage him. And you needn't have shot the killer. I had everything under control," Sherlock said with an air of dignity. His bright eyes followed Mycroft's car as it pulled away.

Morgan laughed. She shoved her hands into her pockets, defining the shape of the gun in her pocket. John briefly began wondering what would happen if they traced the serial number on the bullet back to her gun when he realised that it probably wasn't registered to her name, meaning it was an illegal gun, like his own.

"Oh yes, you had everything under control." Sarcasm was practically dripping from her tone. "You were about to take a pill which had a 50% chance of killing you."

John didn't even bother asking how she knew the details of the case without having anyone inform her. She had been following them around for the day and had probably been solving the case just as they had been. If she had even a quarter of Sherlock's genius, she had probably solved it before John had.

Sherlock lifted his nose with pride. "There was no chance. I knew I had chosen the right pill."

John was suddenly questioning Sherlock's readiness to take a pill that might kill him when he had a daughter to live for.

"Guess we'll never know," she said. "Now, did I hear someone say Chinese? I could go for some dim sum."

John shook his head, like he was waking up from a dream. "Uh, yes. Chinese. Right."

The three of them made their way out onto a busier road where they quickly hailed a cab. John was a bit apprehensive about taking a cab after everything that had just happened but he didn't want to voice it. Morgan jumped in first, sitting in the rear facing seat, followed by John after Sherlock signalled for him to enter. While Sherlock gave directions for the cabbie, John looked from him to his daughter sitting in front of him.

"So you've moved?" Morgan said after the cab pulled away from the curb. "Of course it was only a matter of time. That landlord at Montague Street was a bit of a douche. But he was better than the one before that. Jess over on Wigmore was the best out of them all."

John frowned. "Just how many times have you moved?"

Morgan bit her lip like she was struggling to remember but her clear answer told John she knew perfectly well the number. "17."

"Seven-" John spluttered. "Seventeen times? Why on earth do you move so much?"

Morgan smiled at him before looking over to Sherlock who was busy staring out the window but taking in every word. "Most landlords do not appreciate tenants who play violin at 3 in the morning. Or those who play noughts and crosses on the ceiling with guns. Or those who keeps heads in the fridge."

John took in a deep breath and stared out the front window. Just what had he gotten himself into? Was he one day going to open their fridge to find feet beside his beer?

"I do hope you moved my things this time," Morgan said.

John started. "Wait. You live with your Dad?"

For the first time since they entered the cab, Sherlock spoke to them. "Of course she lives with me. What kind of father do you think I am?"

John honestly had no idea how to answer that. What kind of father _was_ Sherlock? He didn't care that she had an illegal gun, which she used to kill someone, yet he became defensive when something suggested that he wasn't a good dad. How on earth was he going to adjust to this family?

Morgan shot him an apologetic glance. "Sorry, I guess I should have mentioned it. Or someone _else_ should have. Is that alright?"

"Uh yeah. A bit of warning would have been nice." John nodded. "But yeah, it's alright. Fine."

Had it been someone else, John would have been dreading living with a teenager. She'd blast her love songs and bring home boys and John would have to fight her for the bathroom. But this was Sherlock Holmes's daughter. He knew he should be worried about other things. Like if she would accidently shoot him.

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	2. Chapter 2

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**Disclaimer**: I do not own Sherlock.

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Morgan Holmes liked John Watson.

She had liked him the second she clapped eyes on him that morning, following him and her father through the London streets. Her father had informed her of his intention to find someone to split the rent of a decent flat. She had doubted that there was someone out there, other than herself, that would be able to live with Sherlock. Then along came Dr Watson.

Morgan studied him across the taxi, taking in every minute detail. Her trained eyes took in everything from the bottom of his shoes to the top of his head. Within seconds she knew facts about him that would take others hours to know. And she had all the details she needed to know he would be a great flatmate for Sherlock. Just the fact that he had sped to the college to help her father told her what kind of man he was.

He had spotted her through the window, but he didn't know she had spotted him. He had drawn his gun, ready to kill to save her father. For someone that had trust issues, he had been quick to bond with Sherlock. His readiness to shoot the cabbie told Morgan that he was immensely loyal and his silence when talking to Lestrade about the shooting indicated he was trustworthy, just the kind of person her father needed on his side. Plus he had his own illegal gun which gave him double points in her book.

Already they had helped each other. John had helped him solve a case and Sherlock had helped him lose his limp. Completely psychosomatic.

Morgan almost grinned as she looked between the men sitting opposite her. She could see a very strong bond of friendship forming between the two; if Sherlock's odd house habits didn't drive John away.

"Finally!" Morgan exclaimed as the cab pulled up outside the Chinese restaurant. The flashing neon sign in the window proclaimed the shop was still open. She jumped out the door, already breathing in the mouth watering aroma floating out of the shop. As she waited for the two men to pay and exit to cab, she transferred her gun from the pocket of her jacket to the back of her jeans, making sure her loose, baggy shirt would conceal it when she removed her jacket inside. The indentation of the gun in the small of her back was familiar and oddly comforting. Sherlock hadn't been exactly thrilled when she had acquired the gun at 16 but that soon changed when she shot a serial strangler in the shoulder, saving her father's life who had been gasping for oxygen under the murderer.

Her shooting the cabbie tonight was the third time she had used her gun to save her father's life. Although they were immensely stupid and useless, the police force was bound to soon realize that in two and a half years, someone had saved Sherlock three times by shooting the suspects and all three bullets came from the same gun. But she wasn't the least bit concern about them tracing the shootings back to her.

"Don't worry," she said to John as he hopped out of the cab. "I'm a much easier flatmate than my father. He's always plucking his violin or doing insane experiments in the kitchen...which I believe he's going to do now," she said as they watched Sherlock exit the cab and walk down the path leading to Baker Street.

"Wait, where's he going?" John inquired as he watched Sherlock's retreating figure.

Morgan shrugged. "Probably home. He comes and goes like that. Anyway, shall we?" she indicated with her hand to the Chinese restaurant.

John looked down at the now empty street, the night having swallowed up Sherlock's form, to the waiting Morgan. "Sure. I just thought he'd want to catch up with you since you've been away."

Morgan let out a chuckle as she held open the door for John. Her stomach rumbled in anticipation. The restaurant was almost empty, save the couple in the back corner obviously on a blind date, so the waitress let them choose their seats. John chose a small two-seater table against one of the walls. While she tugged off her leather jacket, Morgan gave the place a sweeping glance. Growing up with Sherlock for a father meant it was a habit she had picked up from him and one she couldn't stop herself doing. Now she knew how many people they had served that evening, which tables had been most utilized, the dishes the people had eaten at the table next to theirs and that the waitress serving them has been sneaking money from the till.

Morgan noticed John watching her as she did her quick glances. No doubt he had spent the day watching her father do the same. John seemed like someone who caught on fast so she knew it would only be a matter of time before he began picking up their little habits and knowing what they meant.

"God I'm starving," she said as she slid into the seat opposite John. Immediately her eyes were scanning the laminated menu, searching out her favourite dishes.

"How old are you?" John asked as he looked over his own menu.

Morgan closed her menu and smiled at him. "17. How old are you?" she inquired in a jovial tone.

"Too old," was his reply.

She laughed. The bored looking waitress strolled over and took their orders. Morgan grinned at John's request for Mu Shu Pork while he gasped at her order of spring rolls, Sweet and Sour pork, large fried rice and fortune cookies.

"So let's get to know each other," Morgan said. She already knew so much about him but it was always good to hear how people described themselves.

"Sure." John shifted in his chair as he placed his arms on the table. "I'm an army doctor...was an army doctor. I was serving in Afghanistan when I was shot in the shoulder and sent back here. I have one sister and enjoy a good cup of tea."

Morgan made a mental note to keep that in mind if she ever needed to butter up John. The way he described himself showed how he thought of himself. Short, brief and uninteresting. No doubt he had been a completely different person before and during the war. Now he seemed to be an empty shell that needed fixing. And she was sure that both she and her father could help him.

She grinned and nibbled on her now short nails.

John studied her for a moment before letting out a bark of laughter. "You already knew most of that about me right?"

Morgan nodded. "Yeah. Growing up with dad for a role model means I've picked up some of his habits."

John began absentmindedly rolling a chopstick across the table while keeping his eyes on Morgan. "So you're as good as him? You can just look at someone and know their whole life story?"

"I don't know about their _whole_ life story. I'm certainly nowhere _near_ as good as dad but I can pick up on a few things."

John glanced around the near deserted restaurant. His eyes fell upon the odd couple dining two tables away from their own. "Tell me about them."

They looked into each others eyes, both with grins on their faces. He wanted to see just how good she was and she wanted to show him how smart she was. She looked over to the couple. Her eyes darted rapidly up and down each of the pair, taking in details in seconds.

"They're here on a blind date. Found each other on the internet. Odd time for a date considering it's," she glanced at John's watch across the table; "1:30 in the morning but that's because of her job. She's a doctor; a surgeon judging by the way she holds her utensils and the small marks on the back of her neck from her surgical mask. This is probably the only time they could meet because of her surgery schedule. Her clothes are wrinkled because they've been sitting in her bag all day. She's rushed down here from work because she's in her mid 30's and desperate to meet someone but this guy doesn't appear to be the one considering she's just texted her friend under the table to ring her with an 'emergency'. He, on the other hand, is having a great time because he's a pizza delivery man and his expectations are low."

John stared at her with his mouth slightly parted. The silence between them was broken by the sound of the woman's mobile phone ringing. Morgan grinned.

"How did you know they were on a blind date?" John asked.

"Their ridged and stiff posture suggests that they are not yet comfortable around each other and have just met this morning. They are both wearing loud, obvious items so they could indentify each other, which was completely unnecessary considering how empty this restaurant is. Blind date." Her words rushed out of her in one breath.

John shook his head while gazing at her. "Amazing. Brilliant."

"Thanks. But like I said, not a great as my father." The only person Morgan knew who was better than her father was her uncle.

"To me you seem just as good as your father. And you sound the same when you do it; your tone and words."

She laughed, unsure if sounding like her father was a compliment or not. She was aware of how similar she was to her father; many, many people had pointed out various characteristics that they shared. People commented on how smart they both were (although Sherlock's intellect was far superior), how alike they were in both vocabulary and tone, how they both viewed the world, how they never doubted themselves or their senses and how detached they were from people. Morgan had never liked that last one. She hated it when someone called her cold or apathetic. She didn't see herself that way.

It hadn't been until she entered secondary school at the tender age of 10 did she realize that she wasn't normal nor was the way she had grown up. She had known from a young age that she had above average intellect but her personality and disposition had been another thing. Going to school with normal kids, often older than her for she had been put up through grades, had taught her that she was far from average. She hadn't realized that it was normal to care what people thought of you, that most people didn't say exactly what they thought because it might upset other people, that normal people sugar coated things as not to hurt people's feelings, that most people had friends.

So she spent most of her time in high school studying the students around her. The things the teachers were teaching her were either useless or facts she already knew so she hardly spent any time doing actual school work. Instead, she taught herself how to appear somewhat normal; how to speak to strangers and people she knew without giving away the fact that she was abnormally smart and socially awkward. She learnt how to talk without seeming harsh and blunt. By the time she left school at age 14 she could talk and appear like anybody on the street.

But that was 3 years ago and spending most of her time with her father meant that sometimes she slipped up and said something that to other people was cold and hurtful, but to her was just the truth.

"So if we're going to be living together I guess I should know more about you," John said, breaking Morgan from her thoughts.

"Sure," she replied. "I stay up late but wake up early, almost every morning I walk to Starbucks and buy a Cappuccino, I've learnt to do the housework because if I don't no one will, I like to play the violin but not as often as my father, I can speak eight languages, I'm allergic to shellfish, I can only cook about 4 things, if you ever want a favour just bring me fried rice and I'm all yours, I'm terrible at giving directions, exercise is not a word often used in my vocabulary, and never call me daring, sweetie, babe, honey or any variations of those words unless you want to be shot."

Morgan watched a range of emotions sweep over John's features as he took in all the information she had just given him. She didn't consider herself a difficult person to live with.

Like she had said, she often stayed up until 11 or midnight and woke around 6 or 7 in the morning. Her only exercise consisted of her daily walk down the street to Starbucks for a cappuccino. She blessed her genes for her amazing slim figure, as both her father and mother were tall and slender. Without them she would be the size of a house with the amount of food she ate, especially fried rice and chocolate! She could play piano, guitar and violin but only practiced the violin regularly and at appropriate hours. She did most, if not all, of the housework. If she didn't, the house would soon fill up with dirty clothes, dishes and rubbish as Sherlock barely lifted a finger to clean. She could cook few dishes as she had had no one to learn cooking from growing up (Sherlock _did not_ cook). She spent most of her free time (when not helping her father solving cases) reading as many books as she could lay her hands on and drawing.

She couldn't see John having a problem with her. It was her father she could see him having trouble with. He had little regard for personal items, often destroyed bits of the flat with various weapons, intruded on personal space, filled the flat with experiments and basically spread his junk across the whole place.

She hoped John could look past all those difficulties. She honestly believed that John would have a positive effect on her father and vice versa. John could help Sherlock see a side of the world he had been missing and maybe, just maybe, become someone he could call friend. And Sherlock could give John something that he had been obviously craving since his return from Afghanistan; adventure.

"That's good to know," John said as he tried to remember every bit of information she had given him.

"Oh, my mouth is watering!" Morgan exclaimed as the waitress emerged from the kitchen, her arms laden with dishes. She watched with wide eyes as the waitress carefully placed the plates before them before skulking back into the kitchen. "Thank God. I haven't eaten since the train!"

She piled her plate high with spring rolls, sweet and sour pork, fried rice and a bit of John's Mu Shu Pork. She invited John to dine on her own dishes which he gladly accepted.

"Have you just come back from a holiday?" John asked as he slowly chewed on the end of a spring roll.

Morgan contained the urge to laugh. "Holiday? No. I've just come back from visiting my mother in Rampton."

"Oh," John's surprise was obvious. She wondered what John had thought in regard to her mother. _Probably that she is dead, otherwise why isn't she taking care of me?_, Morgan thought. It was an assumption people had made before, thinking that she had to be dead, because what kind of mother would let Sherlock raise a child? "How is she?"

"Insane."

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	3. Chapter 3

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John raised his eyebrows. "Sorry?"

"She's insane. Literally. She's in the Rampton Secure Hospital. Has been for 14 years."

Morgan had no problems talking about her mother. She never understood why people felt sorry for her. It wasn't like she was the insane one. She understood that most people would feel sad about not having their mother in their life but she wasn't. How can you miss something you never really had?

"Oh," was all John said. Thank God he wasn't like everyone else and said sorry. After a moment's pause he spoke again. "So that's why you live with Sherlock."

She nodded to indicate he was correct as she finished chewing on her pork. "Yes. I was four when my mother started hearing voices. They declared her a danger to the public and herself so she was institutionalised and I was put into the care of my father. I try to visit her at least every 6 months but she never really knows that I'm there. Just lays there and mutters."

They lapsed into silence. Morgan's thoughts turned to her mother. She had travelled twice a year by train to Rampton ever since she was 14. Sherlock had never gone with her. Her grandfather (her mother's father) had taken her instead, up until he passed away last year. The trip she had just gotten back from was the first time she had gone alone.

Her first trip there, she hadn't even recognised the woman who gave birth to her. The last image she had of her mother before being taken away had been etched in her mind, despite being so young at the time. She had been beautiful. Her long hair had been golden and always shimmering with life, her light brown eyes always sparkling, her tall slender frame had continually drawn everyone's gaze to her. She had been expecting to see that woman when she had first travelled to visit her. Instead she had seen a stranger.

Her blonde hair had faded until it was almost white. Clumps of it had fallen out, leaving her with small bald patches. Her eyes no longer sparkled. They started at the wall, never moving. Her figure had shrunk until her bones were visible, protruding against her paper thin skin. Her face was thin, her cheeks concave. When she had looked at the woman lying in the bed, she hadn't seen her mother.

It had taken her 2 visits to see that the woman who had been her mother was dead. Instead, all that was left was her shell. She spent most of her time on her bed, hardly uttering a sound. Some days she got up and moved around while whispering about the people that were talking to her and the things they wanted her to do. She didn't recognise her daughter; the daughter she had laughed at when she had thrown on her favourite dress and covered it with lipstick, the girl she had hugged when she had fallen from her swing, the baby she had given birth to.

Morgan knew her visits were wasted as they had no effect on her. The doctors believed she would never go back to the woman she had been. She would only continue to decline until she died. But she continued to visit her out of obligation. The woman was her mother and that counted for something.

"How did Sherlock and your mother meet?"

"Oh. Do you think they met and fell in love and then I came along?" Oh how she wished that was the case.

John pushed a piece of pork around his plate, his eyes squinting slightly as he thought. "Sherlock doesn't seem the type to..."

"Fall in love?" Morgan finished for him. He nodded. "I was an accident in college. It was the end of the year and everyone was having a party to celebrate graduating. Dad's college roommate practically dragged him along. No one at that age, even dad, is immune to peer pressure. It was the first time he had ever had a drink so of course it hit him hard. My mother approached him aanndd you can guess what happened next. Nine months later- ta da!"

John's eyebrows flew up in disbelief. "He told you that you were an accident?"

"Of course," Morgan replied in a curt tone. "It's the truth."

Johns face showed his astonishment, obviously shocked that a father would admit such a fact to his daughter. Morgan didn't share his thoughts. She wasn't bothered by the fact that her father told her about the circumstances surrounding her conception with such brutal honesty. She had been an accident, so what? Nothing could change that fact and no amount of sobbing or wailing would help.

"Was Sherlock aware of the fact that your mother was pregnant?"

Morgan finished off the very last of the fried rice before replying. "She didn't tell him until she was 7 months along."

"So what did he do?"

She shrugged. "Nothing. I was born, he was aware of it. I lived with my mother for 4 years until she was institutionalised then he was asked to take care of me. I came here and that's it."

The waitress shuffled out of the kitchen and swept their plates away. Her eyes scanned them both, blatantly wondering what a teenage girl and man were doing in her Chinese restaurant at almost 2 in the morning.

"So," John continued with his questioning, "what was it like growing up with Sherlock for a father?"

Morgan stopped to think about that one. She didn't consider her childhood terrible or lacking anything. Her father taught her all of life's important lessons, he imparted his own wisdom to her and had helped her to reach her full potential. To her, her childhood had been happy but she wouldn't know any different.

While other kids had been running around outside, she had been learning the violin from her father. Other kids had been colouring in pictures while she had been performing experiments in a hospital lab. She had been figuring out how someone died when other kids had been figuring out long division. Sure, if you asked someone else, their childhood would seem immensely different from hers but she didn't regret any of it nor would she change it. Her father had done the best he could with her.

"It was different," she answered. "He had a very different parenting method than other parents. It was harder when I was little because, as you know, he doesn't exactly express emotions like everyone else. I didn't understand why he never said 'I love you' or yelled with pride when I aced a test. But he was a great father. I mean, look at me. I'm smarter than the majority of people in London and I'm happier than most. He's raised a happy, healthy child and that's what all parents aim for."

John listened to her speech but his mind caught on one thing. "He's never said he loves you?"

"No. But he does, and he shows it, just in his own Sherlocky way."

John obviously had some thoughts on that but he decided not to voice them. Morgan knew that fact would horrify most people but she simply shrugged it off. She didn't need him to say those three words. She knew how he felt about her. Just the fact that he took her in told her he felt love towards her. A baby hadn't been a part of his plans and he could have easily given her away or up for adoption. But he took her in and gave her his love in the only way he knew how; he taught her everything he knew. His knowledge is his love and by sharing it with her, he shared his love to her. No one else understood her father, but she did, and she knew he loved her.

"Anyway," she said. "Enough about me. What about you? Any wives, girlfriends, kids?"

Of course she knew the answer was no to all three but she had learnt that people prefer to tell you themselves rather than being told. John would soon see that that was a big difference between Sherlock and Morgan.

John shook his head. "No. There's not a lot of dating opportunities in Afghanistan."

Morgan chuckled but she could see something hiding behind his eyes. Sadness. Obviously he hadn't thought about that kind of thing over in Afghanistan, with more important things on his mind, but now he was back to being a civilian, the fact that he was alone looked to be hitting him hard. Morgan wanted to let him know that from now on he would never be alone but she couldn't find the right words.

"Do you miss it? The war?"

John avoided eye contact as he thought about his answer, like he was afraid of what she might see in his eyes, the emotions he couldn't conceal.

"Yes and no. I don't miss watching my mates being shot at and trying to fix people up when you know they won't make it home. I saw some horrific stuff over there, stuff that sticks with you for life. People screaming so loud that you couldn't hear anything else, limbs that were barely recognisable, pools of blood that never went away. In so many ways I don't miss it. But in other ways I do. I miss..."

"The excitement?" Morgan prompted.

"Yes," John said, looking happy that someone else had said it. "The excitement and adrenaline. A little bit of danger. And knowing that I was doing something for my country."

Morgan could see all the emotions John was feeling flashing behind his eyes. He'd been forced to leave the war but he hadn't been ready. He missed the excitement and adventure that being in Afghanistan had produced. Over there he had been helping, he had been useful and wanted. He wasn't feeling any of those things anymore. He didn't like being a civilian. The life of a normal person didn't suit him, it was too mundane. He craved action and adrenaline. He needed to feel wanted again.

"How long have you been back in London?" Morgan asked.

"Just over a month."

Morgan nodded for she had already known that. "Have you visited your sister since your return?"

John's eyes widened slightly in surprise. He opened his mouth sharply, no doubt going to ask how she had deduced that he had a sister, when he snapped it shut again. After a moments passing, he opened it again. "Yes. I went to see her just after I had recovered. But me and Harry don't get along."

Morgan resisted the natural urge to comment on how that might be due to her abusing alcohol. She didn't need to freak John out anymore. But what John didn't know is that she hadn't deduced that he had a sister from anything he said or did or his possessions. She had exceptional hearing and while following them around London the previous day, she had overhead that he had a sibling (which her father had thought, incorrectly, was a brother) and that they had an alcohol addiction. It was amazing what you could find out when you just stopped and listened.

They spoke for a few minutes about living in London before the waitress brought out their fortune cookies. John's said "There is nothing new under the sun. It has all been done before." John laughed and said that after the night he had, he begged to differ. Morgan's cookie said "Your many hidden talents will become obvious to those around you."

Just as Morgan began to yawn, they paid and left the restaurant, with the waitress happy to see them go. They kept up a comfortable conversation during the short walk to Baker Street. Morgan told John, after he asked what she did for a living since she had left school to young, that she worked with her father solving cases. She explained how she had tried to work a normal, routine job but had found it almost unbearable. The stupidity in the retail industry had been overwhelming. She had quit after 2 days. So she spent her days reading or helping her father when he had a case. John commented how amazing it was that the police would let her in to the crime scenes. She explained that most of the time it was Lestrade that called her father in for help and he was fine with her going in to assist. Lestrade had known her since she was 12, when he first contacted Sherlock for help, and had grown to form some sort of bond with her. So a year ago when Lestrade had begun to actually let Sherlock into the crime scenes, he hadn't had a problem letting Sherlock's 'assistant' in too.

Morgan grinned when they rounded the corner and her new address came into view. "I think I'm going to like living next to a cafe."

John chuckled as they walked up the steps into 221B Baker Street. The first thing they heard upon entering was the sound of heavy footsteps and things being thrown around. Morgan sighed. She had been hoping her father might tone it down for a little while, until John got settled, but alas, she realized that was not going to happen.

As they ascended the steps, Morgan heard him muttering.

"What is it? Is it a name? Is it a group? A code? What is it? What, what, what?!"

Morgan appreciated the flat as she entered. Of course Sherlock had already spread his vast collection of items around the place; papers littered the small coffee table held in place by his skull, books filled every available space and experiments were already underway on the kitchen table. Despite all this, Morgan liked the place. It was definitely one of the better flats she had lived in over the years.

"What are you doing?" John asked as he watched Sherlock pacing back and forth in the small space in front of the fireplace.

"Thinking," was his curt reply.

Morgan flopped down onto the small sofa across the room. "About?" she prompted.

"Moriarty."

John looked from Sherlock to Morgan like he was missing something. "What's Moriarty?"

"I don't know." It was not very often those words were uttered by the detective. Sherlock continued his pacing. He placed his fingertips together and poised them underneath his chin.

"Wha-"

"The cab driver," Sherlock said, cutting across John. His tone was laced with annoyance. "He said that every time he killed someone, a sponsor gave him money. Before he died he said that sponsor was Moriarty."

"So he was getting paid to kill innocent people," John said he sat down in one of the empty armchairs, shaking his head like he couldn't believe how sick and deranged some people could be. "And you think Moriarty is a name?"

Sherlock paused. "Possibly." He resumed stomping around the room and searching through books.

"Sherlock!" A female voice called out. "What is all this noise?"

A moment later a tired looking Mrs Hudson, dressed in a bath robe, appeared. "It's 2 in the morning. What-" She stopped mid-sentence when she noticed Morgan stretched out on the sofa. "Morgan!"

Morgan smiled and stood up from her spot of the sofa. The older lady pulled her into a tight hug. "It's good to see you Mrs Hudson."

Never being comfortable with physical contact with people, Morgan breathed out a small sigh when she was released from the hug. She put up with the occasional hug from the woman as she knew how much Mrs Hudson cared for her. Since she never had any children of her own, she'd always had a soft spot for the girl since they'd met when she was 13.

"Oh you get more beautiful every time I see you." She stood back and looked up and down at Morgan. "You look so thin. I hope your fathers been taking care of you," she said as she threw a look at Sherlock who was still searching through his books.

"Don't worry, he has."

She looked doubtful but turned her attention to John. "Oh John. I've made up the bed upstairs in case you wanted to stay tonight."

"Thank you Mrs Hudson." John was grateful for her thoughtfulness. His eyes were already starting to droop and he really couldn't be bothered taking a taxi back to the one bedroom flat he was currently living in on the other side of town.

"Please try to keep the noise level down Sherlock," Mrs Hudson said as she pulled her bathrobe tighter. Sherlock, too absorbed in searching for whatever Moriarty is, didn't respond. She sighed before padding slowly back down the stairs.

"Ah…I guess I'll be off to bed then," John said as he rose from the armchair. He looked to Sherlock who was make no moves to go to bed. He couldn't understand after the day they'd both had how the man could still be going. He was barely keeping his eyes open.

"Good idea," Morgan said as she stifled a yawn. "You might want to buy earplugs," she said as they made their way up the stairs. The loud noises coming from the living room, courtesy of Sherlock, could still be heard up on the second floor.

"Is that what you use?" John asked.

Morgan shook her head, her long blonde hair swaying with the action. "No. After 13 years I've learnt to sleep with the various noises. You could fire a gun in my room and I wouldn't wake up."

John chuckled before saying goodnight and making his way into one of the two bedrooms on the second floor. True to her word, Mrs Hudson had made the bed up with a spare set of sheets. He waited for a few minutes, giving Morgan the courtesy of using the bathroom they now shared first, before he went in. It was a small bathroom, only containing a shower, toilet, sink and one small cupboard in the corner, but John didn't care. Anyway, it was still bigger than the bathroom in his old flat.

He made his way over to the sink and looked at himself in the mirror situated above it. It had only been a day but already he could see the changes. His eyes sparkled a little brighter, a faint smile was visible and not to mention the most obvious change so far, he no longer needed his cane. For over a month he had been relying on that thing to help him walk but after spending just one day with Sherlock Holmes, he no longer needed it. The tremor in his hand had even disappeared.

Sherlock's brother, Mycroft, was right. Sherlock had brought back something into his life which had been missing; adventure and excitement. He craved those things, he needed them. Without them, his life felt boring and meaningless. It was crazy but it was true. Most people would call him crazy for deciding to live with Sherlock after everything today but he felt more alive today than any day since he'd returned from the war. He didn't want to go back to that life; feeling empty, wondering how he could keep going on day after day.

He needed something good in his life. And he thought he may have just found it.

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	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you so much to everyone who has left a review and told me to continue this story. **  
**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

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As usual Morgan woke up early in the morning. Sometimes she hated the fact that she couldn't sleep in but her internal body clock never allowed her to sleep past 7am. She sighed and looked around her new room. It wasn't anything flash, being just large enough to hold a double bed and a chest of drawers. But she wasn't complaining, especially considering the discounted rate they got for the flat thanks to Mrs Hudson.

Surprisingly her father had actually brought up the boxes with her things in them. She quickly located the boxes with her clothes and grabbed a pair of jeans, a simple black tee and her favourite brown leather jacket. After a quick shower, she made her way downstairs while pulling her long blonde hair into a ponytail. Her father was sprawled out on the sofa in the living room, having couldn't be bothered to walk the 10 meters to his bedroom. While she was able to sleep through anything, Sherlock was capable of sleeping anywhere. She had seen her father fall asleep in so many odd places.

She began checking through the cabinets and fridge to see if there was any food at all in the flat. There was not. She sighed and began mentally compiling a list of things she would have to go and buy. Unlike her father, who could survive on 3 meals a week, she actually ate regularly. Granted, what she ate was usually microwave meals or takeout but it was better than nothing.

She decided to go food shopping later on. First things first, she needed her cappuccino. She grabbed her wallet and pulled on some boots before slipping out of the flat unnoticed. Thankfully almost all of the flats they had ever lived in had been within walking distance of a Starbucks. While her father used cigarettes, or Nicorette patches when he 'quits', to keep himself going, she preferred caffeine.

As she entered Starbucks, her eyes instantly scanned the room. It was so instinctive that she didn't even realise she did it anymore. Within seconds she knew thousands of facts about the various people in the store. The man sitting in the corner was cheating on his wife with a man, the girl serving behind the counter was pregnant but hadn't told anyone, the man standing in line had a severe gambling addiction.

Sometimes Morgan wished she could switch off and see the world how everyone else sees it. But she couldn't. The ability to observe and deduce to the level that she and her father could was not one that came naturally. It takes years to train your mind to be open to all incoming stimulus. Most people block it out, choose not to see what's right in front of them and remain ignorant. But she had been raised from a young age to take in anything and everything. That wasn't something you could easily switch off.

While she waited for her coffee and muffin, Morgan pinched some money from the pocket of the woman waiting beside her and stuffed it back into the tip jar the woman had just stolen it from. Observing everything did have its benefits.

Morgan took small sips of the hot coffee as she made the short trip back to 221B. As she entered she could hear Mrs Hudson pottering around in her kitchen. She climbed the stairs and could hear someone in their kitchen. She found John with his head in a cupboard, no doubt searching for something that could pass as breakfast. With a sigh he stood up and saw her standing there.

"Good morning," he said.

"Good morning," she replied.

John was dressed in his clothes from the previous day and looked surprisingly well rested for someone who had only a few hours sleep (it had taken him an hour and a half to fall asleep with all the noises).

"Does he eat at all?" he asked as he motioned towards Sherlock, still asleep on the sofa.

"Occasionally," she replied. "But I do so I will be buying food."

John looked relived. "I'm just going to go around to my old flat to pick up my things."

"Ah...would you like any help?" Morgan asked. She knew that was the social protocol when a friend was moving.

"Thanks but its fine. I don't have a lot of things to move." John was sure it would only take one trip to move everything to his new flat. He had bought very little clothes since returning from Afghanistan and he had only a few personal possessions. Everything he had in his life would fit into 2 or 3 boxes. "I guess I'll see you later then."

"Sure," Morgan replied with a smile.

John made his way downstairs while Morgan sat down in one of the vacant chairs in the living room. Just as John shut the door downstairs, Sherlock jerked awake on the couch. While most people were groggy and dazed in the morning, Sherlock looked wide awake instantly.

"So, figure out exactly what Moriarty is?" Morgan asked as she open the bag and began picking at the muffin.

His eyes zoomed in on her across the room. "I'm positive it's a name," he said as he straightened up on the sofa. "The cabbie said I had a fan, someone had been watching me. I just have to figure out why."

"Maybe it's your sparkling personality." The only thing Morgan had learnt in high school was sarcasm. Sherlock hated it.

"Having tea with Mycroft this afternoon?" Sherlock said in his usual arrogant tone, switching topics.

Morgan always hated when he did that to her. She'd asked him before to keep his observations and deductions about her to himself. She gave him the courtesy of not doing it to him, she just wished he would do the same for her. Unlike most teenage girls, she could never keep a secret from her father. Ever.

"Yes I am."

Sherlock sighed as he stepped over the coffee table and sat down at the table near the windows. "I don't know why you bother," he said as he open his laptop and immediately began typing.

"Because he's family and unlike you, family means something to me."

Sherlock looked indignant at that accusation. "Family means something to me too."

"Oh really?" Morgan asked with raised eyebrows as she continued to pick at the muffin. "When was the last time you spoke with your parents?"

Sherlock paused for a moment. "I wrote them a letter 11 weeks ago."

"My point exactly. Besides, whenever I have tea with uncle he tells me funny stories about you when you were a kid." The only things Morgan knew about her father's childhood were the stories Mycroft and their parents told her. Sherlock never talked about his past nor did he keep any photos. "Did you really want to be a pirate for 3 years?"

Sherlock shot her a look of irritation. Morgan smiled in return.

Silence filled the room. It was a common occurrence. Sometimes Sherlock didn't talk for hours on end, occasionally even days would pass before he uttered a single sound. While others found silence uncomfortable, Morgan didn't mind it. But she wanted to discuss something with her father before he went off into his mind palace and wouldn't respond to anything.

"Dad, before John moves in I just asked to ask you if you could please, just for the first few weeks, tone down the violin playing and the experiments. I like John and I don't want you scaring him away like the last flatmate."

They had tired splitting the rent with a flatmate once before. It lasted a week before the guy had fainted after finding a head in the freezer. He had moved out within 2 hours.

One glance at Sherlock told her he had already disappeared into his mind. She just hoped the words would penetrate into his consciousness and he might actually do what she asked. While she knew John wouldn't be scared away as easily as the last guy, she still wanted to make the first few weeks of living with Sherlock easier for him.

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Not surprisingly it only took one trip for John to move out of his old flat. Looking at the 3 boxes sitting on his new bed, it really hit home how alone he was. All of his possessions could fit into 3 boxes; 3 tiny boxes. He told himself not to care. He'd only been back from the war for a month. It would take time to build a normal life again, to find someone. At least he'd found a place to live.

It took a few weeks before John found himself settling in. It was difficult getting used to living with such an eccentric man. Sherlock came and went at odd hours, his weird experiment were filling up half the kitchen and he seemed to be fond of playing the violin at 1am (John had taken Morgan's advice and invested in some ear plugs). While that would be enough to drive most people away, John found himself staying.

While Sherlock was all over the place, Morgan showed some semblance of normality. She ate regularly, went to bed at normal hours and didn't go off into her own head and not speak for hours on end. John actually found himself growing quite fond of her. Neither of them could cook particularly well but they'd spend hours in the kitchen trying to make a meal. And when they gave up trying they'd walk down the street and get Chinese food. Morgan had started telling John stories about some of the cases she and her father had taken over the years. John knew she was trying to make him feel welcomed and he appreciated her efforts.

If he wanted to stay living in the flat though he was going to have to find a job. His army pension could only support him for so long. He hated thinking about going back to such a mundane job like a GP after working as an army doctor but if he wanted to survive, he was just going to have to put up with it. Sherlock and Morgan managed to survive on the money they made from doing consults whenever people came to them wanting something solved. He, however, would have to get a real job.

He managed to survive for almost 2 months before the money was running low. He was living by the skin of his teeth. Finally he just decided he was going to have to ask Sherlock if he could borrow some money, which he really didn't want to do.

But after what had happened that morning, he didn't really think he had a choice. Embarrassingly, Morgan had had to pay for their groceries as the chip and pin machine wouldn't accept his card.

Now he was sitting in his armchair, looking at all his overdue bills and wondering how he should go about asking Sherlock for money. He decided to just come out and ask.

"Err…Sherlock," he began, glancing back at Morgan who was situated on the sofa reading a book. He'd prefer to do this without an audience but Morgan looked too engrossed in her book to be listening to him. Sherlock, meanwhile, while sitting at the table staring off into space. "Listen…um, if you'd be able to lend me some…" John waited, seeing if Sherlock would react to anything he was saying. He didn't.

"Sherlock, are you listening?"

The man remained deadly still for a moment before speaking. "I need to go to the bank."

In an instant he'd shot off the chair and was grabbing his coat to leave. John, confused, looked to Morgan who simply shrugged and moved off the sofa to follow her father. John sat still in the armchair for a minute, wondering what had just happened before he grabbed his own coat and raced after the pair.

* * *

"When you said we were going to the bank…" This definitely wasn't the type of bank John was thinking of. The three of them were standing in the lobby of the investment bank Shad Sanderson. John followed Morgan and Sherlock onto the escalator. "What are we doing here?" John asked Morgan.

"He's got that look on his face whenever he's on a case," Morgan replied.

They'd gone to the bank for a case? John wanted to ask more questions but stayed silent as he followed Sherlock to the lobby desk. Truth was he was excited at the prospect of being involved in another case. He hadn't helped Sherlock on any cases since the first one, A Study in Pink he'd called it on his blog. He was still making the occasional entry in his blog despite the fact he hadn't gone back to see his therapist since moving in with Sherlock.

They must have been expecting Sherlock because as soon as he said his name they were shown through the bank to the office of Sebastian Wilkies. They were only standing around for a minute before a well dressed man walked in with a smile. "Sherlock Holmes!"

"Sebastian," Sherlock said as he shook hands with the man.

John noted both Sherlock's and Morgan's eyes did a quick once over of Sebastian as soon as he entered the room. He did the same but all he could see was a tall man in a blue suit with an expensive watch.

"How are ya buddy?" Sebastian asked. "What's it been, 14 years since I last clapped eyes on you?"

"This is my daughter Morgan and my friend John Watson," Sherlock said.

"Colleague," John corrected.

John extended his hand to Sebastian but the man was too busy staring at Morgan with wide eyes to notice. "Daughter?" He looked back to Sherlock. "Wow. So that night in uni you and Elizabeth really…"

"You were the one who dragged him to the party that night," Morgan said. It wasn't a question.

Sebastian looked taken aback, obviously wondering how on earth she knew about that night.

"Guess I have you to thank for my conception," she said in an unabashed voice.

If at all possible, Sebastian looked even more uncomfortable as he stood in his office wondering what to say in response. Luckily he was saved by John's outstretched hand.

"Oh. Nice to meet you." He shook his hand before motioning for them to take a seat.

"So, you've been doing well," Sherlock said. "You've been abroad a lot."

Sebastian shrugged modestly. "Well some."

"Flying all the way around the world twice in a month."

Morgan stifled a smile while John just looked confused. He still hadn't gotten use to Sherlock doing that. Morgan did it occasionally but seemed to realise most people didn't like it. He still didn't understand _how_ they did it. How did they manage to look at a man and know his entire life story? He knew it was just them observing things but he still couldn't understand how it worked.

"You're doing that thing." Sebastian let out a small chuckle. "We were at uni together," he explained, looking at John and Morgan. "This guy here had a trick he could do."

"It's not a trick," Sherlock said.

"He could look at you and tell you your whole life story," Sebastian continued.

"Yes I've seen them do it," John said.

"Them?" Sebastian raised an eyebrow as he looked to Morgan. "So you do it too?"

"If by '_it'_ you mean observe and deduce, then yes." One of the things Morgan detested was when people called what she and her father did a trick. It wasn't a trick. Just because they could see what others chose to ignore did not make it a trick.

Sebastian smiled and leant back in his chair. "Go on then."

She smiled in return. It was always fun when people invited her to share her observations about them. They were always so smug and sure that she wouldn't get anything right.  
"You successfully overcame an alcohol addiction in your early 20's but you have recently started drinking again, probably on one of the aforementioned trips; you are in the process of having a tattoo removed from your upper right arm, which you probably acquired when you were drunk; you have started going to laser therapy because you're worried you are losing your hair and I'm pretty sure your girlfriend of 5 years would not be too happy you are sleeping with your secretary."

Silence.

Sebastian was looking like someone had just slapped him, John's mouth was hanging open and Sherlock had a look on his face that could only be described as a mixture of smugness and pride.

As the silence dragged on, Morgan began to worry that she had gone too far. Even when she'd been invited to do it, most people still reacted badly when hearing their darkest secrets coming from a stranger. Usually after a yelling a few choice words at her, they'd storm off or ask her to leave. She was waiting for that to come from Sebastian, along with a disappointing look from her father for screwing up a case when laughter filled the office. She looked startled as Sebastian continued to chuckle for a moment longer.

"Just like your father," Sebastian said. "In uni we'd come down to breakfast in the formal hall and he'd know who'd you'd been shagging the previous night."

"I simply observed."

"Well enlighten me. Two trips a month flying all the way around the world. You're quite right. How could you tell?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond but Sebastian spoke first.

"Are you going to tell me there's a stain on my tie from some special kind of ketchup you can only buy in Manhattan?"

"No, I-"

"Is it the mud on my shoes?"

Sherlock paused before smiling. "I was just chatting with your secretary outside. She told me."

John looked confused at Sherlock while Sebastian laughed. Anyone who said Sherlock didn't have a sense of humour was wrong.

"I'm glad you could make it over. We've had a break in." Sebastian stood and motioned to the door. "Come. I'll explain while we walk."

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	5. Chapter 5

**Thank you so much to everyone following and reviewing this story! Reading your reviews always gives me the inspiration and desire to keep writing when I'm stuck. **  
**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

* * *

They followed him out of the office and began weaving through the many desks situated on the floor. "Sir William's office," Sebastian said. "The banks former chairman. The room's been left here like a sort of memorial. Someone broke in late last night."

"What did they steal?" John asked.

"Nothing. Just left a little message." He swiped a key card over a sensor before admitting them into the office in question. All eyes were immediately drawn to a large portrait hanging on the far wall. The man in the portrait, no doubt Sir William, had a line of yellow spray paint across his eyes. Next to the portrait on the wall was an odd symbol painted in same yellow spray paint.

John frowned at the unfamiliar symbol. Someone had broken into the bank to splash a bit of paint on the wall in an unused office? He looked over to the two Holmes's to see them both staring intently at the portrait and symbol. He wondered if they knew what the symbol meant.

"I'll show you the security footage from last night," Sebastian said. He had somewhat of a smug expression, as if enjoying seeing the great Sherlock Holmes stumped.

Back in his office he brought up the footage from the office. "Sixty seconds apart." The first shot of the office showed it empty and with no paint on the wall. The next shot, exactly one minute later, showed the office was still empty but the yellow paint had suddenly appeared on the wall. He replayed the footage again but there was absolutely no sign of who had broken in.

"So, someone came up here in the middle of the night, splashed paint around and left within a minute."

"How many ways into that office?" Sherlock asked.

"Well that's where this gets interesting."

As expected, all the doors in the bank could be locked and monitored from a central computer. Sebastian showed them the layout of the system on the computer in the lobby.

"That door didn't open last night," Sherlock said.

"There's a hole in our security system," Sebastian said. "Find it and we'll pay you. Five figures." He reached into his jacket and produced a cheque. "Here's an advance. Tell me how he got in and there's a bigger one on its way."

"I don't need an incentive Sebastian." Ignoring the cheque in Sebastian's outstretched hand, Sherlock made his way back to the elevator.

"I'll take that for him." Morgan plucked the cheque from Sebastian's hand. Like many other mundane tasks, keeping track of their income often slipped Sherlock's mind. Morgan, however, was aware that their bank account was slowly draining since the last big cheque they'd received had been 4 months ago when a famous writer had come to Sherlock for help to find her long lost son.

Morgan and John left Sebastian in the lobby to join Sherlock back in the office. John choked in surprise when Morgan showed him the amount of the cheque. Like any broke man would, John instantly felt some jealousy however he quickly pushed it down.

"So do you know how they did it?" John asked as they exited the elevator.

Morgan had her theories but she wasn't ready to share them yet. "I'm more interested in why they did it than how."

When they reached the office Sherlock was standing outside on the small balcony, looking at the city below. He re-joined them in the office a moment later.

"Have you got anything?" John asked Sherlock.

Sherlock opened his mouth but quickly shut it and turned to face his daughter. "Morgan?" He looked expectantly at her.

Often during a case Sherlock would ask his daughter for her observations and deductions. Morgan always loved it when he asked. It reminded her of the deduction games they would play when she was a little girl. Sherlock use to take her to a crowded public area, pick out a stranger and ask her what she could deduce about them. If she got 10 things right about 10 different strangers Sherlock took her for ice cream. Those afternoons are some of the best childhood memories she had. As she had grown up she'd gone from deducing facts about random strangers to deducing facts about the people at a crime scene. In a strange way she felt closer to her father whenever they were working a case together. And for the briefest of moments after she correctly deduced something, there would be a small glimmer of pride in Sherlock's eyes.

"The symbols are unfamiliar to me but obviously they are a message to someone who works on this floor. They broke in at 11:34 which suggests that they either did it then because there would be less workers in the office or, more likely, because the message was left for someone who started work at midnight."

Sherlock nodded but she could tell by his expression that she'd missed something. Like she'd told John when they'd first met, she was nowhere near as good as her father (or uncle).

"There are hundreds employees out there. How do you know which one it was left for?" John asked.

Once again Sherlock looked to his daughter. She, however, had yet to figure it out. She could feel her father's eyes looking expectantly at her, waiting for her to figure out what was, to him, blaringly obvious.

She glanced from the symbols to the other office situated throughout the floor. That's when she realised half of them were obscured.

"Pillars," she said.

There it was. The flicker of pride in his eyes and the slight tugging up of the corners of his mouth.

Sherlock left them in the office to go out into the maze of desks and determine who the message had been left for.

"Pillars?" John questioned. "What do you mean?"

"If you're leaving a message for someone you want to make sure they'll see it. As you can see there are pillars and screens throughout this floor. We can eliminate the people whose views of this office are obscured by the pillars," Morgan explained as she watched her father scuttle through the floor with his eyes glued on them and the office. He was starting to draw a lot of attention as he weaved and bobbed through the desks but, being Sherlock, he didn't feel one ounce of embarrassment like a normal person would.

John shook his head in amazement. Within a few minutes they had considerably narrowed down the field of who the message was left for. If it had been anyone else investigating, it would have taken them hours, if not days to reach the same conclusions.

"Your deductions also seem so crazy until you explain them," John said. "Then it seems so obvious you wonder how you missed it."

"That's because you see but you do not observe."

Sherlock returned to the office a few minutes later, holding up the insert of a door name plate that read Edward Van Coon. "Not many Van Coon's in the phonebook."

Obviously this man's office had been the only one with a clear view of the office thus the message must have been left for him. The 3 of them made their way downstairs together and quickly jumped into a taxi. Sherlock, having googled it in the elevator, gave the driver the address he had found for the only E. Van Coon in the phonebook.

As they drove through the busy London streets, John suddenly remembered the conversation in the office. "Two trips around the world this month," he said, breaking the silence. "You didn't ask his secretary. You just said that to annoy him. How did you know?"

Sherlock smirked as he drew his gaze away from the window to the man sitting opposite him. "Did you see his watch?"

"His watch?" John questioned.

"The time was right but the date was wrong. It said 2 days ago. Crossed the dateline twice but he didn't alter it."

"Within a month. How'd you get that part?"

"New Breitling. Only came out this February."

Once again John shook his head in amazement. How could Sherlock pick up on something so small like the date on a watch?

"Don't worry John," Morgan said. "If you hang around dad long enough, you'll pick up some of his methods."

John smiled, wondering if that was true. I guess if you live with someone long enough you do pick up on some of their habits; it just happened that the habits of the two people he was living with were looking at people and knowing almost everything about them. Would he eventually be able to do that? Obviously he would never be able to do it to the extent that Sherlock and Morgan could. But maybe one day he would be able to look at anyone on the street and know certain things about them.

A few minutes later they pulled up in front of an apartment complex. Sherlock immediately jumped out of the taxi while Morgan pulled out a few notes to pay the driver. John pulled out his wallet to contribute but Morgan quickly waved away his offer. When they joined Sherlock he was standing beside the buildings intercom system, pressing the buzzer next to the label Van Coon. They waited for a moment and after getting no response he pushed it again.

"So what do we do now?" John asked when there was again no response. "Sit here and wait for him to come back?"

Sherlock, who eyes had been scanning the exterior of the building, gave a slight shake of his head. "Just moved in."

"What?"

"Floor above. New label."

"Could have just replaced it," John reasoned.

Sherlock pressed the buzzer for the new label. "No one ever does that."

A moment later a female voice come over the intercom. "Hello?"

"Hi, um, I live in the flat just below you. I don't think we've met?" Sherlock said in an upbeat tone that was very unlike him. John gaped at his sudden change while Morgan smiled. Anyone who'd ever said that Sherlock (or herself for that matter) had no knowledge of human nature was incorrect. While he may not understand it, he knew enough about it to know how to act and sound to manipulate ordinary people into doing what he wanted.

"No, er, well I've just moved in," the lady said.

Sherlock nodded while sending a glance to John which clearly said '_Told you so'_.

"Actually I've just locked my keys in my flat."

"Do you want me to buzz you in?" she offered.

"Yeah," Sherlock said. "And can I use your balcony?"

"What?"

"To jump down onto mine," Sherlock explain, still using his cheerful and approachable tone. "I left my balcony door unlocked so I can get in that way."

"Oh. Okay," the woman said after a pause.

A loud buzz sounded, signalling that she'd unlocked the front door to the building for them. John and Morgan went to wait outside Van Coon's apartment door while Sherlock went up to the next floor.

John had been standing by the door, wondering what they were going to find in the apartment, when he noticed Morgan pulling something out of her coat pocket.

"Wait…is that a lock picking set?" He asked as he watched Morgan open the small leather pouch and pull out small tools.

"Sure is," she replied. Kneeling down in front of the door, she slipped the torsion wrench into the lock and then slid in the pick.

"It's pink," John said as he watched her carefully adjust the bright pink tools in the lock.

"Dad gave it to me for my tenth birthday," she explained. "My favourite colour was pink."

John smiled at the thought of a young Morgan with a grin on her face, unwrapping the pink tool set while Sherlock watched on.

"Does he always give you such…practical gifts?"

"He use to but over the years we've stopped doing birthdays," she said as she continued to adjust the tools within the lock, carefully trying to hit the right spot.

"Really? Why?"

She shrugged. "Birthdays are just another day. Nothing really to celebrate."

They could hear noises in the apartment now, signalling that Sherlock had successfully jumped onto the balcony and entered the apartment.

"So you just carry it around with you all the time?" John asked. He knew you could be prosecuted if you were caught with anything that suggests you intend to commit burglary, like a lock picking set. However considering he met her after she had just shot someone and she owned an illegal gun, he doubted she worried about something like a lock picking set.

"Never know when you might need to break into something," she said. "Plus dad has a habit of not opening doors." A small click sounded and Morgan grinned in triumph. She stood and quickly slipped the tools back into their pouch.

"Nice work," John said.

The door easily swung open and they walked in. It was a nice apartment, full of luxury and high priced items. Sherlock was standing in the hallway, slipping his phone into his coat pocket.

"You're getting slower," he said.

"Well it would be a lot faster if someone could just open the door," she responded. "Who was on the phone?"

"Lestrade," Sherlock said. "Van Coon's dead."

They followed Sherlock into the bedroom to see Van Coon's body lying on his bed, a gun on the floor beside it. While any other teenage girl might have thrown up or run away, Morgan walked over to the body to carefully inspect it. The obvious cause of death had been a gunshot wound to the temple, she noted. While it may have looked like a suicide she knew upon one inspection of the whole apartment that it had only been staged to look that way. Van Coon had been left handed while the bullet had been fired into his right temple, thus it was highly unlikely to be a suicide. However, that raised the question of how someone got into his apartment when the bedroom door had been locked from the inside. The only obvious and logical explanation was someone had scaled the building and gone in through his bedroom window.

John watched as Morgan inspected the body and the apartment. He wondered if he'd ever get used to seeing a teenage girl inspecting crime scenes. He only teenage girls he'd ever seen had been on the tube snogging their boyfriends or walking through the streets with a phone in one hand and loads of shopping bags in the other. She may look like a teenage girl but she never acted like one, he'd learned that after 2 months of living with her. Whenever they had conversations or hung out together, he always forgot she was only 17.

The forensic team arrived before Lestrade. They immediately began photographing and collecting evidence throughout the flat. A few of them looked confused upon seeing a 17 year old girl at their crime scene but no one said anything.

"Do you think he'd lost a lot of money?" John asked as he stood beside the bed, watching as someone on the forensic team took photographs of it. "Suicide is pretty common among city boys."

"We don't know that it was suicide," Sherlock responded. He slipped on a pair of gloves he'd grabbed from the forensics' kit and knelt down beside an open suitcase by the bed.

"Come on," John said in an incredulous tone. "The door was locked from the inside, you had to climb down the balcony."

Sherlock ignored his remarks as he studied the suitcase and its contents. "Been away three days judging by the laundry." Morgan, who had been standing by the bed with John, looked down at the suitcase to see he was correct. She also noted an odd shape formed by the clothes, suggesting he'd packed something in there.

Sherlock confirmed her thoughts a moment later. "Look at the case. There was something packed tightly inside it."

"Thanks, I'll take your word for it," John responded without a glance down to the suitcase.

"Problem?"

"Yeah, I'm not desperate to root around some bloke's dirty underwear."

"The symbols at the bank were left as a message for Van Coon, as we've already establish," Sherlock said as he moved from the suitcase to examine the body on the bed. "Why were they painted? You want to communicate, why not use email?"

"Well maybe he wasn't answering."

"Oh good you follow," Sherlock said as he inspected Van Coon's pockets.

"No," John said.

"What kind of message would everyone try to avoid?" Morgan asked John in a much kinder tone than her father's.

"What about those letters you were looking at this morning," Sherlock said.

"Bills?"

Sherlock lent over the body and pried open his mouth. "Yes, he was being threatened." He pulled out a small black object from Van Coon's mouth which appeared to be an origami flower. He was slipping it into an evidence bag when a man walked into the bedroom. The man's foul mood, as evidence by the look on his face, only worsened when he saw Sherlock holding an evidence bag and a teenage girl standing by the body.

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	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

* * *

"Ah Sergeant," Sherlock said. He pulled off one of his gloves and extended a hand to him. "We haven't met."

"Yeah, I know who you are," the man replied in an irked tone. "And I would prefer it if you didn't tamper with any of the evidence."

Sherlock handed over the evidence bag. "I phoned Lestrade. Is he on his way?"

"He's busy. I'm in charge. And it's not Sergeant, it's Detective Inspector Dimmock."

Sherlock's surprise at the man's position was evident on his face. The man looked far too young to have reached that rank within the police force. Dimmock stalked out into the living room with Sherlock, John and Morgan quickly following.

"We're obviously looking at a suicide," Dimmock said as he passed the evidence bag to one of the forensic people.

"It does seem the only explanation of all of the facts," John said in agreement.

"Wrong," Sherlock said immediately. "It's one possible explanation of some of the facts. You've got a solution that you like but you're choosing to ignore anything you see that doesn't comply with it."

"Like?"

"The wounds on the right side of the head. Van Coon was left handed. Required quite a bit of contortion." He demonstrated this by trying to reach around to the other side of his head with the opposite hand.

"Left handed?" Dimmock inquired.

"I'm amazed you didn't notice. All you have to do is look around this flat. Coffee table on the left hand side; coffee mug handle pointing to the left; power sockets, habitually use the ones of the left side; pen and paper on the left hand side of the phone because he picked it up with his right and took messages with his left. Do you want me to go on?"

"No, I think you've covered it," John said.

"I might as well, I'm almost to the bottom of the list. There's a knife on the breadboard with butter on the right side of the blade because he used it with his left. It's highly unlikely that a left-handed man would shoot himself in the right side of his head. Conclusion, someone broke in here and murdered him. Only explanation of all of the facts."

"But the gun-"

"He was waiting for the killer. He'd been threatened."

"What?"

"Today at the bank," John explained. "Sort of a warning."

"He fired a shot when his attack came in," Sherlock said as he picked up his scarf and quickly wrapped it around his neck.

"And the bullet?" Dimmock asked.

"Went through the open window."

Dimmock scoffed. "Oh come on! What are the chances of that?"

Shocked slipped on his coat and pulled out his gloves. "Wait until you get the ballistics report. The bullet in his brain wasn't fired from his gun, I guarantee it."

"But if his door was locked from the inside, how'd the killer get in?" Dimmock asked.

"Good. You're finally asking the right questions." Sherlock turned on his heel and immediately left the apartment. Without hesitation Morgan followed. John, after an awkward glance to Dimmock, quickly left to follow the pair.

By the time he caught up to them outside, Sherlock had already hailed a taxi and was jumping inside. John quickly hopped in after Morgan and frowned as Sherlock gave the address of a restaurant to the driver.

"Wait…we're going to a restaurant?" John asked. He thought Sherlock never ate when he was on a case. Something about digestion slowing him down or some other nonsense.

"Yes," Sherlock replied. "We're going to tell Sebastian that one of his bankers is dead."

"How do you know he's going to be there? He could be still in his office."

"His diary." A frown from John made him elaborate. "His diary was open on his desk and I saw his schedule for today." He glanced down briefly at his watch. "By now they will be halfway through their meal."

True to his words, when they arrived at the restaurant and spotted Sebastian and his colleagues, they were indeed halfway through their meal.

"It was a threat," Sherlock announced as he approached the group without so much as a hello. "That's what the graffiti meant."

The men at the table looked bewildered at the trio's sudden appearance and Sherlock's opening statement. Sebastian, obviously miffed that Sherlock had interrupted them, looked at them somewhat condescendingly. "I'm kind of in a meeting. Can you make an appointment with my secretary?"

"I don't think this can wait. Sorry Sebastian. One of your traders, someone who worked in your office, was killed."

That changed the mood of the table considerably. "What?" Sebastian said.

"Van Coon," John said. "The police are at his flat."

"Killed?!" Sebastian looked alarmed at the news.

"Sorry to interfere with everyone's digestion. Still want to make an appointment? Would, maybe, nine o'clock at Scotland Yard suit?"

Sebastian awkwardly excused himself from the table. After a moment of looking around the restaurant, it was clear there was no private or quite place to speak. They improvised and headed into the men's toilet. Morgan was about to follow them in when John stopped her at the door.

"Uhh, you might want to stay out here," he said, indicating with his head to the sign clearly stating 'Men' on the bathroom door.

While Morgan had no qualms about entering a male toilet she supposed other people might so she stood by the door while the three men talked inside.

"Harrow, Oxford. Very bright guy," she could hear Sebastian saying. "Worked in Asia for a while so.."

"You gave him the Hong Kong accounts," John said.

"Lost 5 million in a single morning. Made it all back a week later. Nerves of steel, Eddie had."

"Who'd want to kill him?" John asked.

"We all make enemies."

"You don't all end up with a bullet through your temple."

"Not usually. Excuse me. " She heard a tiny beeping noise, obviously Sebastian's phone. "It's my chairman. Police have been onto him. Apparently they're telling him it was a suicide."

"Well they've got it wrong, Sebastian," Sherlock said. "He was murdered."

"Well, I'm afraid they don't see it like that. And neither does my boss. I hired you to do a job, don't get side-tracked."

Sebastian's footsteps echoed through the room and a moment later he exited the bathroom. Morgan stared at him while he gave her an awkward nod before re-joining his colleagues at the table.

"I thought bankers were all supposed to be heartless bastards," John said sarcastically as he exited the bathroom behind Sherlock.

The trio left the restaurant and hailed a taxi to head back to Baker Street. It was clear Sherlock's attention was no longer focused on a simple break in when there was a murder connected to it. As soon as they entered the flat Sherlock was typing away on his laptop, trying to find out what the graffiti message actually meant.

Morgan wanted to join in his search but unfortunately she'd promised Mrs Hudson yesterday that she would have afternoon tea with her. At least once a week Mrs Hudson would invite her down for tea and biscuits. She always said yes because she knew how lonely the woman could get.

"So you're on a case are you?" she asked as she poured more tea into Morgan's cup.

"Yes," Morgan replied. "One of dad's…friends from university asked him to find out how someone broke into the bank he works at." She explained their whole day from the events at the bank to the discovery of Van Coon's body in his flat. Every time Morgan talked about one of their cases, Mrs Hudson would say the same thing…

"You're a bit young to be getting involved with murders dear. You should be out with friends, having fun."

Morgan wanted to laugh. Friends? The only person who would almost qualify as her friend was Molly Hooper, the morgue attendant at Bart's Hospital. And John.

"I like what I do Mrs Hudson."

"Still, your father should be taking better care of you. What happens if you get hurt one day?"

"I've been working with dad on cases since I was 10. I'll be fine."

In-between her never ending offers of more tea and biscuits, Morgan managed to excuse herself from Mrs Hudson's flat. She climbed the stairs to see her father was now alternating between searching the internet and rifling through their books for anything about the symbols left in the bank. Instead of going to join him, she continued up the stairs to the second floor, planning to take a shower. As she approached her bedroom, she realized John was in it. She walked in to see him staring at the small photograph taped to the corner of her mirror.

"Oh sorry, I wasn't meaning to snoop," he said in a flushed voice. "I was just doing some washing and your socks were in the machine so I brought them up and-"

"John," she said, cutting off his rambling. "It's fine. Thank you."

"Oh." He visibly relaxed. His eyes travelled back to the photograph. "Is that your mother?"

"Yes." It was one of the few photographs she had of her mother. In it she was smiling brightly, her brown eyes shining as the wind whipped back her blonde hair. Her father had taped that picture to her mirror just before she'd left to visit her mother in the hospital for the first time. When she'd asked him why he'd done it, he told her that he wanted to her remember the woman in the photograph, not the lifeless one in the bed.

"She's very beautiful," John said as he stared at the photo. "You look just like her."

"I know." Morgan moved into the room to stand beside John. As she looked at the photo she could easily see some of her own features in her mother's face. "That's why people are always surprised when I'm introduced as Sherlock Holmes's daughter. I look nothing like him. They expect to see an extremely tall girl with curly dark hair. Instead they get a normal sized girl with long, straight blonde hair. The only thing I got from dad is his eyes. Sometimes…I wonder if I looked more like him, if he would…" she left the sentence hanging, unable to finish it.

But the words were there. Would he love her more?

She knew it was a silly thing to think. Her appearance wasn't going to change how much her father loved her. But still, it would have been easier if he would look into her face and see parts of himself instead of the woman he had a one night stand with in university.

"You do look like your mother," John said. "But you look like Sherlock too."

Morgan smiled at John's obvious attempt to make her feel better.

John quickly excused himself and made his way back downstairs, still thinking about Morgan and her mother. He hadn't been lying to her when he'd said she looked like Sherlock but she had inherited most of her looks from her mother. He wondered how much of her she remembered. She'd only been 4 when she'd been taken from her mother and put into Sherlock's care. As John walked into the living room and looked at Sherlock sitting at the table typing on his laptop, he tried to imagine him raising a four year old child. He couldn't. But somehow he had.

John sat down in his armchair and opened his laptop, searching for any vacancies at clinics around London. He desperately needed a job, even if it was just a casual one. Luckily there were a few available. He was just beginning to type up his resume when Morgan came bounding down the stairs. She saw her father still madly typing away on his laptop and immediately approached him.

"Okay, time for a break," she said. "Come help me with my experiment."

"I need to find out what those symbols meant," Sherlock replied, not even glancing up from the screen.

"No, you need to take a break," she said with more insistence. "Take a break and come back with a fresh mind."

John sat there, watching and waiting for Sherlock's reaction. After a moment he sighed and stood up. Morgan grinned brightly and practically skipped into the kitchen. Sherlock followed and soon he could hear them talking about their experiment, something involving hands and other severed body parts.

After two months of living with the Holmes's family, John was seeing what Morgan had talked about when they'd first met. Although Sherlock may not show his affection for his daughter like a normal parent would, he did, obviously, love and care for her. You just had to look deeper than normal to see it. Like Morgan had said, he had his own 'Sherlocky' way of showing his love.  
Having spent time with Sherlock, both when Morgan was and was not present, he could see that whenever his daughter was present, Sherlock was slightly less antagonistic. His tone whenever he spoke to her was always softer than when he spoke to others. Even now, John noted as he looked over his shoulder, as Sherlock corrected Morgan's technique, his tone was still gentle. Had he been correcting anyone else's mistake, the condescension would have been clear in his voice. What hadn't been obvious to him at the start he could now clearly see; Sherlock did love Morgan. And Morgan, obviously, loved her father. She had no problems expressing her emotions, regularly hugging and kissing her father on the cheek. However, he'd never heard neither of them had say those three words; 'I love you'.

He wondered why it was so hard for them to say it when it was so clear that they felt it.

* * *

John was still practically grinning from ear to ear as he got out of a taxi at 221B. He'd just been to a job interview at a surgery which had gone fantastic. Not only had he got the job, the woman interviewing him, Sarah, had been flirting with him…or at least he thought she had been.

He entered the flat to see Sherlock sitting in the same position he had left him in; staring at the mirror and the pictures of the symbols stuck up there with his hands poised together under his chin.

"I said could you pass me a pen?" Sherlock asked as soon as John entered.

John threw his coat down in his armchair as he approached him. "What? When?"

"About an hour ago."

"Didn't notice I'd gone out then," He said as he picked up a pen and chucked it in Sherlock's direction. He managed to catch it without taking his gaze away from the photographs. "I went to see about a job at that surgery." John inspected the photos stuck up on the mirror.

"How was it?"

"Great, she's great."

"Who?"

John realised he'd unintentionally been thinking about Sarah. "The job."

"She?"

"It."

John was saved from any questions from Sherlock as Morgan entered the room. "How'd the job interview go?" she asked.

"Good. I start in a couple of days."

"That's great."

"There, have a look," Sherlock said, indicating to the open laptop beside him.

John walked over to see it was open on an online news article, called _'Ghostly killer leaves a mystery for police'_. He skimmed through the first few lines of the article. "The intruder who can walk through walls." Morgan walked over and looked over his shoulder at the article.

"Happened last night," Sherlock said. "Journalist shot dead in his flat. Doors locked, windows bolted from the inside. Exactly the same as Van Coon."

"God. You think…?"

"He's killed another one," Sherlock muttered. "I think we need to go and pay Detective Inspector Dimmock a visit." A moment later he jumped up and grabbed his coat. "Bring the laptop."

Morgan grabbed the laptop while John picked up his coat from the chair where he'd thrown it a minute ago. Within a minute they were in a cab on their way to Scotland Yard. In the silence of the cab John's mind began going back to the interview this morning; more specifically, to Sarah. He wondered if he should ask her out. Then he began having doubts. What if she hadn't been flirting this morning, just being friendly? John had no idea. After being in Afghanistan for so long, where the dating opportunities had been zero, his dating skills were a little rusty.

"Did you ask her out?" Morgan suddenly asked.

"What?" John looked startled as he was pulled from his thoughts and realised what she had said.

"The girl you're obviously thinking about now. The doctor. Did you ask her out?" Morgan had been watching John across the cab for the duration of the ride. He'd been siting there with a silly smile on his face. Even someone without deduction skills would have been able to tell he was thinking about a woman.

"Err…no."

"You should." After coming back from Afghanistan, John had been on the lookout for a girlfriend. Morgan would watch his eyes search the crowd every time they were out. With each day that passed, his desire to find someone and start a family grew.

John didn't respond as they pulled up in front of Scotland Yard.

The immediate change of Detective Inspector Dimmock's expression was almost comical as he saw them coming. "How can I help you?" His tone suggested helping them was the last thing he wanted to do.

Morgan handed the laptop over to her father who immediately sat it down on his desk and brought up the article.

"Brian Lukis, freelance journalist. Murdered in his flat. Doors locked from the inside." Sherlock spun the laptop around to show Dimmock the article.

"You've got to admit it's similar," John said. "Both men killed by someone who could walk through solid walls."

"Inspector, do you seriously believe that Eddie Van Coon was just another city suicide?" Sherlock asked. Dimmock didn't answer as he avoided all 3 of their gazes. Sherlock sighed in irritation. "You have seen the ballistics report I suppose?" Dimmock slightly nodded his head. "And the shot that killed him, was it fired from his own gun?"

"No."

"No. So this investigation might move a bit quicker if you were to take my word as gospel. I've just handed you a murder inquiry. Five minutes in his flat."

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